


Double Jeopardy

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:10:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Root x Shaw prompt: John bets Root $200 that she won't be able to take Shaw on a date. Naturally, Root cheats by telling Shaw and offering to split the winnings. Halfway through dinner, Fusco, Harold, Zoe and Reese call to confirm if Root and Shaw are really on a date. Fusco grumbles loudly as the others hand over money to John. Apparently they had had a pool going on when the women's first official date would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Jeopardy

Slipping a blonde, pixie cut wig from her head, Root’s dark brown curls spill out, falling over her shoulders and down her back. Running a hand down the back of her head, Root takes off her jacket, wrapping it around the bleached wig, and walks towards the subway station’s out-of-service strain car. Movement stirs out of the corner of her eye, and she turns, muscles tightening with the edge of her last mission still simmering in her veins. From the shadows, a tall, familiar figure in a drift wood suit emerges.

“What was it this time?” John asks in greeting, voice warm in welcoming her back. He looks her over, eyes taut with thought. “Secretary? No- kindergarten teacher,” he surmises. Root merely laughs, starting for the train car once more.

“The latter,” she answers him, kicking off her pale blue flats and starting to work at the buttons of her blouse. “What have you been doing while I was gone?” She counters. “I mean, _besides_ lurking in the shadows.” Now tucked within the car, she glances out the cart’s scratched window, eyes catching Reese’s as he starts to turn around to face the terminal’s entrance. There is the slightest awkwardness in his posture as he rocks from foot to foot. A small smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth, and she yanks open the lower half of their team’s shared locker, digging out spare clothes.

“Just working the irrelevant numbers,” he responds to her, raising his voice for it to carry her way. Root redresses quickly, walking back out of the train car in her black socks, wedge heels in one hand. Making sure to enter Reese’s vision as she heads for the terminal’s bench, she silently releases him from his prison-like chains, and with a chest loosening breath, he turns to face her once again. “You seen Shaw yet?” He asks casually, yet the question causes Root pause. Her eyes dart up to his a moment, scanning and searching his as if to find the words in his mind before he utters them.

Unable to uncover his thoughts, Root takes a silent seat on the bench, leaning over to tug on her shoes. “No,” she responds, voice calm but eyes tinged with a hidden emotion trying to escape, “why?”

* * *

 

Reese shrugs, looking around nonchalantly as he shuffles in a lazy circle, the ceiling seeming to momentarily pique his interest. Just when she thinks the weight of suspense will crush her entirely, he responds.

“No reason,” he tells her, although it doesn’t much ease her apprehension. Tying the laces of her heels, her mind runs through anything and everything that could have happened to Shaw in the thirty-six hours she’d been out of state. “Just think she might have missed you.”

Root freezes, nimble fingers like motionless icicles as they cling tensely to her shoe laces. The oxygen in her lungs escapes, leaving her chest to burn. A vacillated tingle causes her nerves to collide, and she feels nervous heat scorching her cheeks.

“I highly doubt that,” Root responds with mellifluous laughter, masking the excitement that trembles within her. “Not that I won’t be teasing her about it later.” Reese gives a short half smile in amusement, but his eyes remain set in deeper concentration.

“No, she definitely wasn’t the same without you around,” John assures her, his tone just vigorous enough to raise some red flags. Root has always been excellent at reading others, and what she is picking up on now is honesty.

“John,” she replies, playful condescending swirling like a raging sea in her tone. “I was your therapist once-” Reese’s lips press together snidely “- and from a doctor to her patient,” she gives him a dashing smile, “I have to advise you it’s not healthy to express your own emotions through others. If you missed me, just _say_ it.” Reese’s eyes narrow, and for a second, the serious cloud that was racing Root’s way recedes.

“You’re not joking your way out of this one, Root,” Reese tells her bluntly, and the tempest plunges forward. Her smile drops, and she stands.

“So,” she says slowly, advancing upon him with the speed of a snail. “What do you want _me_ to do? Call her and tell her I’m back? I’m out a phone.”

John shakes his head. “Take her out.” If Root had been one for the faint of heart, she would have gone into cardiac arrest on the spot. She can’t speak, just gawk at him as if he’s an alien with six heads. On the other hand, she probably would have had a better reaction to the martian.

“ _Why_?” She all but coughs out, the thought of taking Shaw anywhere other than on a mission proves stunning enough; Reese’s suggestion makes it all the more shocking. He tilts his head to the side at her as she takes another agonizingly slow step in his direction. His eyes are exasperated, asking her why someone as intelligent as her is making him spell it all out.

“How you feel about her has never been very _confidential_ information,” he admits, and fluttering erupts in Root’s chest.

“Since when have you ever been interested in _feelings_?” Root prods, smiling although her insides rattle like chains in a tornado. She finally stops trekking towards him, staying a few feet away as she struggles to unlock the hidden inner workings of Reese’s mind.

“I can be sensitive,” he defends with a smile, yet Root doesn’t take the bait.

“As an ox,” she remarks, and his lopsided grin flops.

“You know what _I_ think?” He says to her, tilting his head her way with icy blue eyes locked onto hers. “ _I_ think you couldn’t get a date with her, even if you _did_ want to.” Root’s lips press together tight, eyes flaring up with rage. “ _I_ think, that no matter _how_ much you’ve flirted with her, she’d still say no. And _you_ know it. That’s why you won’t even _try_.”

Heat courses through Root’s veins, fingers clenching into fists as she wants nothing more than to whip out her handguns and empty them into his knees. Part of it owed to her indignant stubbornness in loving to prove people wrong. The other part owed to the fact that he might just be right. Root scans her memory, finding all the different times she’d made a somewhat subtle move on Shaw, and still missing a few. In this little flip book of recollections, she watches as Shaw’s initial ignorance of it turns to fluster, and from there, to a sort of deflection or banter back depending upon her mood. _Even if I have grown on her some_ , Root thinks, pulling herself out of her mind and back to the present, _it still wouldn’t be enough for a date. It might never be._

Eyes darting to John, her muscles tighten. She watches his calculated countenance as the gears turn just behind his skin, eyes digging holes into her head as he reads her expression. _I can’t let him know that,_ Root decides with a set determination. _Even if Shaw would shoot me for asking, I can’t let him be right._

“You’re wrong, John,” she tells him at last, animating once more as she heads back for the subway car. Her fingers are itching to do anything, mind needing an excuse to stay preoccupied. “I’d barely have to ask.” _Ostentatious much?_ She grumbles to herself, but knows there’s no other way to dig out of the situation. As of right now, confidence- even over confidence- is key.

Reese shakes his head. “No,” he responds in a lackadaisical manner, following her into the car, “now that I think about it, I don’t think any amount of force could get Shaw on a date.” A clever smirk pulls at the corner of Root’s mouth.

“We don’t know,” she responds coyly. “Because _I_ haven’t asked her yet.”

“Two hundred bucks says you can’t get Shaw out by tomorrow night,” John goads, and Root forces herself to remain sly, although her insides shatter like panes of glass. _Tomorrow night? That soon?_

“That’s asking a little much, don’t you think?” Root responds with a clever grin, grabbing some ammunition from a filing cabinet. She has enough already- especially considering there’s no number to use it on- but still, she needs something to do.

“If you can’t get it done,” Reese replies with a falsely morose sigh, “You’ll just have to owe me.”

“Owe you _what_?” She responds just a hair to quickly, eyes darting up to his. _I could casually give him the money and tell him I’ll ask her on my own time_ , she thinks, relief begin to flood through her.

“Your Smith and Weston M&P Shield would suffice.” Root nearly chokes, eyes widening. _No_ , she thinks to herself. _Oh, no way in Hell._

“I never said I _couldn’t_ get it done,” she answers at last, stammering the slightest bit with the uptake. “I just… wanted to know the stakes.” John gives her the smallest grin, leaning in and looming over her deviously. Tilting her head with a blood chilling smile of her own, Root pulls the phone from his jacket pocket and quickly dials Shaw’s number.

It rings.

“What do you want, Reese,” Shaw dead pans, and Root can’t help the affectionate smile that flickers onto her face.

“Try again, Sam,” Root purrs, unable to deny the warmth that grows in her chest as she thinks of how Shaw might react.

“Root,” Shaw responds, voice no longer annoyed; rather lightened and quick. “Where have you been, and why are you on John’s phone?”

“We have to have a little chat,” Root tells her cryptically, eyes glimmering as she peers up at John. “Meet me at Central Park West and Columbus Circle in ten minutes. Okay?” Without waiting for a response- or a possible refusal- Root hangs up, holding the cell out for John to take. Her lips are pursed in a smug fashion, and she knows now that Reese was painstakingly right. Her feelings on the subject aren’t that hard to read.

Nonetheless, he swipes the phone and she brushes past, headed for the exit.

“Gotta go,” she calls out behind her in a euphonious way. “Date to make.”

“Good luck,” Reese yells after her, and she smiles.

“I don’t _need_ any luck,” she coos, turning her head back to look at him before escaping towards the streets. With the cold drafts of the city’s winds leaking through the gaps of the run down pathway, Root’s smile finally falls. _I don’t need luck at all,_ Root thinks to herself, blood beginning to freeze. _I need a plan._

_________\ If Your Number’s Up /__________

Root takes to the shadows as she heads towards her destination. Right along the edge of Central Park, she hopes it will give the most amount of privacy possible. Also, it’s the farthest point she could think of- she needed time to sort her thoughts out, after all. And finally, with only one block to go, she’s finally constructed the perfect plan. Sneaky, cheating, and somewhat diabolical- it can’t be more perfect.

Crossing the street, Root peers over the heads of the other New Yorker’s on the crosswalk, spotting Shaw with her back turned to the crowd. She leans against a street sign, eyes cast down as she checks the time. Already, Root feels a smile gaining on her features.

Without making an introduction, or giving Shaw any warning at all, Root grabs Shaw’s wrist from behind, not stopping her speedy gate as she heads directly for the tree line. Instantly, she can feel the searing pain of Shaw’s opposite hand on her forearm, ready to snap it out of surprise. Then, as the ache lessens, Root pulls her along harder.

They crunch through dry leaves and snap fallen twigs for approximately two minutes, when Shaw’s finally done waiting for any sort of explanation.

“What are we doing out here, Root?” Shaw asks, voice spewing with irritation. As if on cue, Root halts abruptly, turning back to Shaw just in time for Shaw to run into her. Grabbing Shaw by the shoulders, Root presses Shaw’s back to the nearest tree, close as possible for one

two

three

four

five stretching seconds, Shaw’s breath is hot on Root’s face as she looks directly up at Root, eyes demanding answers. Still, Root holds onto the moment, waiting until she thinks Shaw will throw out an arm and strangle her before speaking.

“Just have to make sure nobody else can find us,” Root all but whispers out, smiling down at Shaw. Shaw tenses in her hold, eyes flaring with curiosity.

“Is someone after you?” Shaw demands, and Root’s smile grows, hearing the underlying concern in Shaw’s tone.

“No,” Root responds, and Shaw’s tension melts at once, pushing Root off of her and shaking her head. “You’ll have to shut your phone off,” Root tells her, stepping close to Shaw once more. Shaw gives her a narrow-eyed glare before complying.

“I sent you a message the other day,” Shaw grumbles, powering off the cell and stuffing it back into her jacket pocket. Root gives her a lopsided smile, eyes spilling over with twitterpated nerves.

“I know,” she replies, placing her hands on Shaw’s shoulders. Shaw looks as if she’s going to swat Root away again, but doesn’t. “But, before I got to answer it, a five year old in my class took it off my desk.”

“ _And_?” Shaw asks in annoyance, lips pursing the slightest bit.

“ _And_ dropped it on the concrete.”

“Phones aren’t _that_ temperamental,” Shaw counters, hostility rising in her tone; it only makes Root feel more excited.

“They are when it’s a four story drop out an open window,” Root responds, and Shaw rolls her eyes. “I made him go get it though.” Shaw freezes, gaze shifting warily to Root’s.

“Using the stairs or the window?” Shaw asks, only half joking. Root smiles at her a moment more, then moves on without answering.

“Is your earwig off?” Root asks, and Shaw raises an eyebrow. Still saying nothing of what’s on her mind, Shaw takes the small device from her ear and powers it down.

“Can I know what this is about yet?” Shaw asks tiredly.

“Nope,” Root responds with a grin, then slides her hands down Shaw’s arms, patting at the fabric of her jacket and tucking her fingers into the pockets.

“What the hell are you _doing_?” Shaw spits, sounding more alarmed than Root’s ever known. Shaw’s eyes are wide, lips pulled in a sneer, and her face is slightly flushed.

“Just checking for bugs, Shaw,” Root responds playfully, continuing the frisk once again.

“Don’t you think I’d _know_ if I were _bugged_?” Shaw seethes, stomach clenching as Root checks her pant pockets.

“Never know with John and Harold,” Root responds, checking down to her ankles before standing once more. “You’re clean,” she tells Shaw, who purses her lips.

“ _I_ could have told you _that_ ,” Shaw mutters.

“Better to be safe than spied on,” Root responds in a chipper tone. Then, it drops for one a little more suggestive. “If it’ll make any difference, you can feel free to sweep me, too.” Shaw stares at her a moment, ears reddening and eyes scalding as anger boils within her, until she finally breaks the glare.

“Root, are you going to tell me why we’re here, or am I going to have to torture it out of you.” Root’s eyes light up at the threat.

“ _Well_ ,” she remarks in a tone swirling with ponderance, “now that you mention _torture_ …” Gaze flickering to Shaw’s unamused countenance, Root’s licks her lips and gives her head a short shake. “John and I made a bet,” Root tells her, nerves starting to dance, “and it involves you.”

“The answer’s no, to whatever it is,” Shaw interrupts, starting to brush past Root. Root, grabbing her hand, spins her around.

“Wait, just let me explain it.” Shaw’s eyes go down, then back up to Root’s. Waiting. “Okay,” Root breathes out, everything surging out in a rush. “When I got back this morning he bet me two hundred dollars that I couldn’t get you out on a date by tomorrow night.”

Shaw watches her. Silent. _Silently fuming? Silently hoping?_ Root has no idea, her only option to plow on before Shaw tries to escape once more.

“So I was thinking that the two of us could fake the date, get the money, and split it. What do you think?”

Again, Shaw looks down, then back up. Curious, Root lets her own gaze trail down, first looking at the ground, then sweeping to the left. Her heart skips a beat. She’s still holding Shaw’s hand. Clutching it, more likely, considering Shaw’s fingers are tensely held away from Root’s all the while Root’s nails dig into the back of Shaw’s hand. Yet, instead of letting go, she peers back to Shaw with a smug glint in her eyes. Annoyed, Shaw yanks her hand back, stuffing both in her pockets as a million murder scenarios play in her eyes.

“It’s an easy hundred,” Root tells her in a coaxing tone. “And I’ll cover dinner.” Shaw bites the side of her lip, eyes focusing past Root’s shoulder in thought. After a minute, she’s finished deliberating.

“Conning John out of two hundred dollars?” She asks rhetorically, slow smile sliding onto her face. “Count me in.”

__________\ We’ll Find You /___________

Pushing open the glass double doors of a quaint resturaunt on the outskirts of Manhattan, Sameen Shaw enters the small, cramped waiting room. A host stands at the far end behind a podium, telephone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he flips through pages of loose leaf paper with inhuman speed. Taking a quick scan of the room, Shaw finds an assortment of people in semi-formal attire squished onto long sofas, all waiting to get in. Checking the clock on the far wall, her stomach rumbles. _We’re gonna be waiting for an hour._

Stepping into the far corner of the room, Shaw takes in her own clothing choice. Black jeans- not the nicest but not riddled with blood stains or gun powder. New blouse she’d picked up on the walk here; black as night and soft against her skin. It’s comfortable enough, yet as she waits, she can’t help but wonder if the occasion calls for something less casual.

She thinks back to her apartment, where she’d spent more time than she would ever admit trying to find something to wear. _Short white dress with the spaghetti straps from the art gallery last year? Too formal. Black pencil skirt and tank top from her under cover work at the office? Too nerdy._ On and on she’d pillaged through her closet, looking for something- anything. Then, finally finding a dress she deemed appropriate, she stopped. _It’s not a real date,_ she reminded herself with a quick smack to her forehead. It was a ploy to out Reese two hundred dollars, and it was Root’s idea. _Hell, Root won’t be dressing up._

With a rueful smile in her corner, Shaw thinks of how awful it would have been to show up in a dress, all to Root’s teasing pleasure.

Cold air brushes against Shaw’s arms as the doors are flung open yet again, and she closes her eyes, trying to force ease over her mind. Some part of her kept filling with flittering nerves at the idea of dinner, and wasn’t the hungry part of her either. She’d been sent out on death defying missions, she’d had gun fights with some of the most dangerous people on the planets- hell, she’d even been killed once- but she’s never felt this, this… _This what? Nervous?_

“Come here often?” A familiar voice coos from in front of her, and Shaw’s eyes dart open to find Root forcing back a smile. _She’s terrible at hiding them_ , Shaw thinks to herself, and to her dismay, she can feel her own lips twitching into a mellow smirk. “Ready to go?” She asks, but before Shaw can respond, she finds her eyes doing what they do best: taking in intel.

The first thing she notices is Root’s hair. Not out and flowing down her shoulders like usual, but rather pulled back in a tight, tidy bun. Yet, that’s not the only thing that keeps Shaw’s lips shut tight.

She’s wearing a dress. Black lace trails from her wrists to her neck, met by silky, solid fabric just below her collar. Form fitting and slender, Shaw’s eyes travel down with the material until it drops off just before Root’s knees. She blinks once. Twice. Then forces her focus back up.

“Nothing like making me look bad,” Shaw snaps, the best compliment she can come up with while her brain is spinning in a blender. Root tilts her head with a secretive smile.

“You look good, Sam,” Root tells her before leaning in close. Shaw holds herself deathly still as she feels Root’s breath on her ear, unsure whether the hum in her chest means she likes it or hates it. Maybe both. “You _always_ look _good_.” Before Shaw even has the time to process, Root is back at a normal stance, knowing glow in her eyes as she grabs Shaw’s wrist and heads for the host.

“How can I help you?” He asks, stopping his wild flapping and floundering just enough to appear superficiouly composed.

“Root. Two,” Root responds, and he nods, finger trailing down an endless planner.

“You made a _reservation_?” Shaw asks tightly between clenched teeth, attention not leaving the host. From the corner of her eye, Shaw watches Root’s face light.

“Busy place,” Root counters in a similar fashion, not a moment before the host resurfaces into reality.

“Yes, here we are, Monica will show you to your seats.” With that, a spritely young woman with short blonde hair and a welcoming smile scoops two menus from a nearby wrack and pushes open an opaque, second set of doors.

A large room unfolds before them with a labyrinth of tables and chairs to maneuver around. With years of experience, Monica flies through the course, leaving Root and Shaw to hurry behind. Looking around, Shaw takes in the lowered lights and soft music that flows easily around the restaurant. The walls are splashed with a light red, and every window is white trimmed. All in all, the place is not overly lavish, but it’s not your average Friendly’s either.

Shaw slides into the booth, sinking down in the soft seat. A moment later, she’s tilting to the right, and to her somewhat annoyance, she finds Root sitting directly at her side- shoulder to shoulder. Glaring up, Shaw’s eyes are hard on Root’s demanding to know why she hadn’t gotten in on the opposite side, like anyone else would’ve. Root raises her eyebrow in response, and Shaw rolls her eyes, sliding 270° in flustered vexation.

“Can I start the two of you off with something to drink?” Monica asks, smile wide and amused as she looks between the two. “My personal recommendation would be our specialty drink of the day; care to know what’s in it?”

“Is it alcohol?” Shaw asks flatly, and Monica’s smile falters.

“Uh, yes, along with-”

“I’ll have two,” Shaw interrupts, eyes set frostily on Root from across the table. Root returns the stare with a warm one of her own.

“Anything for you, ma'am?” The waitress asks, voice twinged with awkwardness.

“No, I’ll just steal one of hers,” Root responds, breaking her locked stare to give the waitress a polite smile. Without another word, Monica dashes off, leaving the two to their own devices.

Shaw straightens the wrapped silverware before her, unfolds the napkin, takes out the utensils, places them back inside, rolls it back up. Her mind is just as restless fiddling with thoughts of Root, and of the bet, and of Root with the dress, and how she only has to make it to the end of the night, and Root without the dress-

Her fork, knife, and spoon clatter from the napkin onto the table, and behind curtains of her straightened black hair, Shaw’s ears grow hot and red. Bristling with chagrin, she grinds her teeth, mechanically folding the silverware back into a neat display.

“Here are your drinks.” Monica’s voice bursts through Shaw’s swearing mind, releasing her from the thoughts she’s trying to force from her head. Partially in a daze, Shaw takes the beverages from the center of the table, sliding them just before her. Monica says something else that Shaw doesn’t quite catch, and a moment later Root’s voice pipes up, pointer and middle finger raised to signal two of whatever she’s ordering. Rolling her jaw, Shaw blinks, and the world returns back to normal.

“People are going to think we’re pretty weird,” Root says from across the table, clever smirk in her eyes as Shaw takes a swig of the chilled beverage. “Same _drinks_ ; same _meal_ …”

“Do I _seem_ like the type to care what other people are going to think?” Shaw counters, and- to her un-admitted pleasure- gets a soft chuckle from Root.

Shaw, feeling herself cracking under Root’s intense and unreadable gaze, takes another long drought from the massive glass before her. A strawberry-red slush glides through the black straw, and she drags a finger lazily around the glass’s rim, stopping at a vibrant lemon slice on the opposite side. She tries to ignore the slight creak from across the booth’s bench seat.

Yet, ignorance isn’t bliss, for a moment later, she finds the drink being eased right out of her grip, and her eyebrows raise. Not moving an inch, she lets her eyes slide to the right, where Root is dangerously close. _Perilously_ close. Watching with an equal mix of irritation and interest, she finds Root gazing right back at her, chestnut eyes lively and playful. With exaggerated slowness- as if waiting to be stopped- Root takes a long sip.

“Would it have _killed_ you to take the one I _wasn’t_ holding?” Shaw cracks at last, forcing the smile she feels rising to remain within. Root stirs the drink with the straw, then gives an innocent shrug.

“If it upsets you _that_ much,” Root responds, compassion dripping, “you can have it back.” Shaw’s eyes drop to Root’s mouth, where Root bites the straw with a sense of boredom, waiting for Shaw’s response. For some reason unbeknownst to Shaw, the sight leaves her heart fluttering against her chest, throat instantly drying out. She coughs, forcing her gaze back up.

Rolling her eyes without a response, Shaw slides the second beverage over, chugging down a good quarter of it in one go. Although the liquid itself is cold, the alcohol spreads warm fingers through her stomach, stretching out towards the rest of her body and her breathing comes more steadily.

“Remember Miami?” Root asks, a smile in her voice. At the mere mention, the sight of a bar and palm trees unfolds before Shaw’s eyes, amongst other things.

“Good time,” Shaw replies, peering over at Root. Root gives a slow nod of the head, eyes lit like Christmas lights.

“This kinda reminds me of that,” she says, and Shaw can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, except for the body count,” Shaw cracks, and Root grins mischievously.

“The night’s still young,” Root replies, and a shot of excitement darts up Shaw’s spine. She licks her bottom lip, leaning her elbow on the table and turning her body Root’s way.

“If there aren’t any jets involved, I’m gonna need a little more convincing,” Shaw counters, and Root shuts her eyes tight, lips pressing together in a smile.

“That,” she says, a reminiscing laugh in her voice. “ _That_ was fun. But,” she adds, leaning in close to Shaw’s face with a devious smile, “I think what topped that for me were these.” Stretching her hands out, she takes Shaw’s hand in both of hers, laying Shaw’s left arm out against the table. Then, using her right hand, Root walks her fingers lazily down Shaw’s palm and across her wrist. Shaw can feel her throat constricting, airways clogging and heart cracking her ribs with each pounding thud, until Root finally stops, tapping her finger three times to a small white mark on Shaw’s lower wrist. Squinting her eyes to study the scar, flashes of white lab coats and stolen servers dance in her head. Being within one of the thousands of black hearts of a god.

“Yeah, that was um, a good one too,” Shaw fumbles, far too consumed with the feeling of Root’s hands on her skin and Root’s breath tickling her ear. Looking back up, she’s nearly nose to nose with Root now, who watches her with a steady, transfixed stare. It’s not hard for Shaw to find herself also mesmerized.

_Right there. She’s right there._

Shaw’s breathing is so soft she can barely feel the air escaping her lips and nose, all thoughts not pertaining to this exact moment melting away. She loses every memory they were laughing over; she escapes irritation from Root’s bolder moves in the night; and she forgets entirely that this is a bet at all.

_I bet her lips taste like strawberries from that drink._

Yes, of _all_ the pressing matters that could be running through the head of a trained assassin, this is the only one that gets across. But somehow there is this telepathy between them, and the glint in Root’s eyes says she knows exactly what Shaw’s thinking, and Shaw can swear Root wants her to find out.

Until Root’s phone rings. Loud beeps not even a bear in hibernation could ignore, the cell screams for attention, and- after ignoring it for as long as humanly possible- Root pulls away to retrieve it. As soon as she’s gone, a coldness washes over Shaw’s face, awakening her from the spell she was under. Not realizing how far in she’d leaned, Shaw straightens back up, tracing loops along the table with the condensation on her glass.

Root places the phone on the table, putting it on speaker and leaning back in her seat.

“John,” Root greets, voice warm in greeting but, as Root glances Shaw’s way, Shaw notices an almost bitter edge to it.

“Root,” he replies in a casual tone, sounding pleased. “How’s it going?”

Again, Root looks to Shaw, then leans her arms against the table. “Fine,” she replies, smile stretching at the corners of her mouth as she says it. “We were actually in the middle of something before you called.” Shaw raises a brow with lazy accusation Root’s way, who rolls her eyes in response.

“Anything _I_ can hear?” He asks jokingly, and Root flips her hair back over her shoulder.

“You know _me_ , Reese,” she coos. “I never kiss and tell.” Shaw opens her mouth to say something, but stops, seeing Root raise a finger to her own pursed lips. Simmering in the precursors of fury, Shaw folds her arms, waiting.

“I’m _sure_ ,” he responds sarcastically. Then, he finally gets down to business. “So you’re really on a date then?” He asks.

“You bet,” Root replies, the pleasure in her voice something Shaw finds impossible to fake. However, she’s unsure if it’s satisfaction from the night itself, or the con running in the background.

“I wanna hear it from Shaw,” he tells her after a moment. “Promising her food and being on a date are two different things.”

“It’s a real date, Reese,” Shaw responds, leaning in towards the receiver as she tries not to notice Root’s doting eyes burning a hole in the side of her head. There’s another pause, and just when Shaw thinks he might have hung up, sound crackles back through the speaker.

“Alright,” he says, voice picking up speed as if he’s rushing out the door. “I’ll let you two get back to it.”

_______\ Double Jeopardy /________

Hanging up the phone in one swift movement, John Reese stashes his cell back in his pocket, a trickle of relief running through him. Although he didn’t think Root would mention their arrangement with Shaw right there, he couldn’t be certain, and is already too far invested to get discovered. Not now. Not when he’s so close.

Turning around, he gives the trio before him a small, wry smile, smoothing down his suit jacket.

“You heard them,” he tells the group, unable to keep the smugness from his voice. “Pay up.”

Groans erupt from Lionel Fusco as he grudgingly rummages for his wallet, and Harold Finch’s mouth droops into a slant, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he tries to sort out what’s happened.

“I don’t understand how you could have possibly known it would happen by today,” Harold exclaims with a sigh, pulling out two, one hundred dollar bills and handing them over. John tilts his head Harold’s way, as if he’s just as clueless.

“I’m a good guesser,” Reese replies, earning a snort from the detective.

“What, your teachers tell you that in high school?” He cracks, holding the money out. Reese’s eyes grow hotter, just enough to make Fusco uncomfortable.

“At least I didn’t rely on it to pass my Police Exam,” he shoots back, swiping the cash.

“Like you ever took one of _those_ ,” Fusco mutters under his breath, obviously agitated by John’s comment. Reese’s gaze falls on the last member of their cohort, eyes gleaming especially bright with satisfaction.

She steps forward, holding her purse open as she rummages through a pocket. Pulling out the two hundred, she steps up close to John, holding it up between them, being only mere inches apart. Reese reaches towards it; she pulls it back.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to take money from a woman,” she asks, smirk coy and eyes mischievously lit as she watches him. His grin widens.

“Good thing _you’re_ a lawyer, Zoe,” he responds, and she gives a short chuckle. Placing the folded bills in his breast pocket, she gives it a tap before backing up.

“No,” Harold says, disbelief leaving his voice an octave higher. “It’s not _possible_ for him to have just guessed this week. We all picked at least a month, how- _no_.” Reese shakes his head with a laugh, stuffing his winnings into his pocket.

“I think he cheated,” Zoe chips in, and Reese widens his eyes at her. She gives her shoulder a shrug.

“If you’re all really doubting my honesty that much,” Reese tells them with a serious countenance, “how about… Double or Nothing?”

“On what?” Fusco asks, interest already piqued. Reese barely has to think.

“First time they sleep together- and each of us can only pick a three day window.” Harold’s jaw goes slightly slack, all the while Zoe Morgan shakes her head.

“Oh, you’re _on_ ,” she responds to him, followed directly by Fusco’s,

“I’m in.”

All eyes fall on Harold. He looks between them, holding strong at first, but finally shattering.

“Fine,” he mutters at last. “But this time, _I_ call first pick.”


End file.
